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Raisin Hell

I am SO. Sick. Of. Raisins.

They're one of Colin's latest food kicks. (You know how kids do; they'll be practically addicted to one sort of food for weeks on end, and then one day - usually after you've decided it's safe to buy whatever item it is in bulk - they decide they don't like it any more.) He wants raisins with, and sometimes instead of, every meal. While he's eating them, he pretends they're everything from bugs to currency to stuff from the inside of a volcano.

As many times as I've said, "Eat those at the kitchen table" or some similar variant of that phrase, it's amazing how few raisins actually do get eaten where they're supposed to. Because of this, I've found them in the following places:

-The silverware compartment of the dishwasher-Scattered on the stairs-The bathtub-Stuck in the cat's fur-Stuck to the living room carpet-Stuck to the bottom of my foot-Stuck to my butt after unknowingly sitting on one in the recliner-Inside Cameron's poopy diaper, disturbingly whole-Inside the heater vent-Inside the washing machine after they've gone through with a load of laundry

I'm sure there are more, but you get the picture. I'm finding raisins in every possible nook and cranny of my house. My fingers, like my kids, are perpetually sticky from both doling them out and picking them up. Not only that, but the boys always want to share their raisins - which are inevitably covered with cat hair - with me.

Um, no thanks.

The economy-sized canister of raisins that I just had to buy is nearly empty, thank goodness. And I swear I'm not buying any more after these are gone ...